No Clue
by WolfMagic48
Summary: Sherlock's looking though John's stuff when he stumbles across John's old stuff from high school, and finds out about John's first romance. M for possible later Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

God, he wishes his mind would shut up. He was thinking about at least 12 different things at once. Why did this have to happen whenever he tried to fall asleep, and where was that sweet white injection of relief when he needed it? It would make him be able to focus, he'd stop floating from one layered set of thoughts to another, and he could go hide in his drug-induced mind palace. John and Mrs. Hudson had been pretty good at keeping him clean, but god, sometimes he just needed something 7% stronger then tea. He needed a case of one kind or another, and at this rate, he'd do just about anything to get to it. Well, except murder someone. He knew what the consequences were for that, and he wasn't _that _desperate... Well... Let's just say he was pretty close. He sat up violently and threw on his robe. He couldn't do anything while his mind was like this, and he wanted to do something, but there was too much in his head for him to decide what to do. So, he went with the next thing that came though his mind palace, and that was John giving him a cigarette. John had them somewhere, and he was going to get them from him.

John was asleep upstairs. His breath was heavy and he looked like he had been sweating. _Nightmare, _Sherlock thought quickly. Of course, John would never expect him to be up here, so the cigarettes probably were here. He scanned the room. Clean, military... Very John. Any drawers would be too obvious. John knew that would be the first place he would look. Closet then? Honestly, the drawers were probably more likely, but Sherlock couldn't think about it. He just needed to start looking, before John startled awake from his nightmare.

He opened the closet and went scanned the top shelf. There was a shoe box, which caught his attention, and he pulled it down, opening it up. There was a old camera, yearbooks from school, photo album, notebook, beer bottle, jewelry case, a bottle of perfume, and a suit. Sherlock breath caught in the back of his throat. What was this? He knew that brand of alcohol went out of business a long time ago, was probably from twenty five years ago at least, then. Same with the perfume brand.

He pulled out the yearbook on top and opened it. It fell open to a page with a note tucked into it. It appeared to be from his girlfriend at the time. Susan. He froze. This was John's old stuff from high school, prom stuff, from times with a high school sweetheart from long ago.

He opened the photo album, and sure enough it was. John and Harry were in the pictures, and they looked pretty happy together, put as the photos got newer, they stopped wrapping their arms around each other and there were less pictures with the both of them smiling. Instead the older pictures had John with Susan. That same girl for the rest of the book. Sherlock slowly closed it. John, with one girl as a teenager. He tried to wrap his head around that one. John forever had multiple girlfriends that didn't last long. Not one women he was totally absorbed in.

Just as he was picking up the notebook, he heard John stop his ragged breathing.

"What the hell are you doing in here, Sherlock! It's one in the morning!"

"Nothing."

"Really? You look like you're looking though my stuff! Jesus Sherlock, do you have _no _sense of personal space? That's my..."

"John-"

"Get out of here. Now. And don't you dare leave with _any _of it!" He shouted at Sherlock as Sherlock opened the jewelry box. The neckless wasn't that expensive, but seemed to be well worn and well loved. It wasn't clean, but it was a teenagers. They don't clean their jewelry, they wear it constantly till it breaks.

"Put that down. Sherlock-" John snatched the neckless from his hands.

"Get the fuck out of my room and my stuff."

"Who was she? Susan?"

"Get. Out."

"No. Not until you get answers. If I can't have a case, then I can at least have this answer. I can tell she was your girlfriend for a very long time when you were young. What happened? Why did you keep... Oh."

"What?"

"Sentiment. She left you, but you still love her... Even now, years later."

"She died, Sherlock. She died and there was nothing I could do. She wouldn't eat. Anything. For the longest time... She would hurt herself, cut herself so only I ever saw it. She hung herself by this, in the end. My neckless."

Sherlock froze. He wasn't used to people telling him sob stories without it being related to a case, certainly never someone he sort of cared about. He just stood there like he had just been drenched by a bunch of icy-cold bucket of water above his head that came out of nowhere.

"Just go. I need a minute. Damn you Sherlock, what were you doing going though my stuff?"

"Looking for cigarettes."

"That's it Sherlock. You have your answers, and if you dare go through my stuff again, I swear..."

"I'm going. I'm... Sorry," Sherlock choked on the apology as he left the room, John closing the door behind him. He had no idea any of that had happened to John. A deduction he hadn't bothered to make. He hadn't really thought about John's dating habits or the people he had lost. I mean, he knew he had lost people. He had been in the war, as a doctor. Of course he had lost people, but this hadn't occurred to him. John, dating on girl till she died by her own hand. He loved her, but he wasn't enough. Stuff like that happens all the time, and it had never really hit him before that it effected people for years. Not till it was John.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning John walked into to Sherlock still standing in his robe playing his violin. She had played the violin, too, Susan. God, why did Sherlock have to open that? It was opening a pit of depression he had fell into for years afterwards. It was good times, but it ended like a nightmare. A reoccurring nightmare. You're first experience loosing someone you love is always rough. Susan was his first everything. It hurt to remember that it was the first person the doctor had failed to save.

Sherlock stopped playing when John walked in.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock didn't even turn around.

"It's fine."

"No, John," Sherlock grabbed John's elbow, "I'm _sorry_."

John shock himself out of Sherlock's hand, "It doesn't matter," he said, not sure if he was saying it to Sherlock, or to reassure himself.

He made began making himself toast and tea. Sherlock snuck up behind him, standing so close John could feel him breathing on his scalp.

"Please Sherlock, just stop."

"I said I'm sorry John. I never say that."

John stopped buttering his toast, "Just... If you need to at night, you can have a nicotine patch. Or play the violin. Or shoot the wall. I don't care, just don't look though my stuff. I don't ask about your life in the past, you don't go nosing though mine."

"Okay. Leave your gun out tonight."

"Fine. You go find yourself a case today. Promise me you'll at least look. I need to go to work. Somebody needs to pay the rent."

"Oh, and get milk."

"Milk, right, got it."

When John left, Sherlock collapsed onto the couch, staring at the yellow-smiley face on the wall.

"You think he hates me?"

It just smiled back.

"Yeah, he does. I hate social situations. Why do I try?"

It just stared back, one eye shot straight though.

"Why with only John?"

It seemed disconcertingly happy, like a clown.

"No one knows, I guess. He's just... John. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. For some reason, it always comes down to that, doesn't it."

Maybe it was more like a Moriarty smile.

Man, his brain was finally focused on something, and it was Susan and John. He thought of the girl. She was way taller then him, a thin twig, long wavy hair and pale skin that would burn in seconds. She had crazy cheek bones. Ones people would consider beautiful, he supposed. She did look like one of those girls off of magazine covers and in billboards. And every picture, that neckless. She probably never took it off. He couldn't imagine sleeping with metal around one's neck could be comfortable, but emotion and sentiment made people do very strange things.

He couldn't help himself. Sherlock found himself back upstairs, and he pulled back out the box and took out the photo album and notebook. Replacing the box, he went back downstairs and laid on the couch, mulling over each photograph, dissecting each one, looking for the story of John's life. He had to know. It was a case he wouldn't let himself give up on.

John came home, exhausted. It was ridiculous, the amount of humanity that was sick at any given time. He unlocked the door to the flat, and found Sherlock on the couch, paging though a book. Surprising, really. He wasn't often found doing that. It seemed he had read every book he could possibly care to.

That's when he realized it was the photo album.

Not cool. So not cool.

"Sherlock."

"Hello John."

"What are you doing with my photos!"

"Hm?" One look at John's face reminded Sherlock what he was doing wrong.

"Oh..."

"Dammit Sherlock, what the hell are you admiring my dead girlfriend for?"

Sherlock hadn't been admiring that girl. Not at all. If anything, he had been admiring John. Hold on... Had his brain just said that? Man, he needed a case.

John snatched the photo album and began to head back upstairs.

"Wait, John."

"What, Sherlock?"

"You forgot this," He handed John the notebook.

"I give up. I don't even care anymore. Just take the whole fucking box and do whatever you want with it."

John chucked the photo album back at Sherlock, and was about to leave, when Sherlock pinned him against the wall.

"I'll trade you for a case. Just one case."

"No, Sherlock."

"I can't think, John. It's all becoming so jumbled in my head... I haven't slept in forever. One day of nothing just blends into the next. My mind palace gates are lock, John. I can't get in. I don't know what to do. I'm so sorry, it just keeps happening."

"She was the one love of my life. Susan is the only women I've truly loved. I've had plenty of them, but she was it. She was the one, and she's gone, Sherlock. Just gone. I know you can't even comprehend that, you've never loved in your life."

"I wouldn't say that."

"Sherlock..."

"John, you have no clue," Sherlock was close, on the wall. John could feel his breath, his heart, his hair brushing the top of his head. He looked familiar, he always had, but he hadn't really noticed till just then.

Sherlock was like Susan.

"Shit."

"John?" The question was stupid. It was all there, in John's eyes, in his pulse, in his breath.

John kissed Sherlock, hard and forceful, that grieving kiss, the one that was trying to fill a empty place, that seemed impossible to fill.

Sherlock hadn't actually kissed anyone before. He just followed John. He wanted John to like this, he was desperate to fix that heart he'd so clearly re-broken, old scars opening back up.

It was pretty clear Sherlock had no clue what had just happened, and what to do, so John entangled his fingers with Sherlock's, and let go.

"John,"

"It was your first, wasn't it?"

"I'm not Susan."

"You're Sherlock. That was your first kiss, I'm your first love, and you were brilliant."

"John... Really?"

John kissed him again, and Sherlock was figuring it out. He learned fast, and John found one of his hands tangled in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock was touching all of John he could, filing weak spots. His neck, his waist, his hands made him breath faster. When Sherlock leaned towards john and locked John into the wall, he seemed to like that, too. He liked it when Sherlock was able to take more control, and quickly he was. Sherlock licked John's lips and entered, exploring that deliciously hot mouth.

John's hands trailed down Sherlock's robe. Now he was holding both hands, breathless. God, he hadn't felt this for the longest time. Complete trust. This wasn't a experiment, this wasn't because he wasn't getting enough attention from a secret love somewhere else. This was real, and pure, and raw passion. John relished it.

Sherlock had seen this. You stumble across people snogging when you spend your life in dark alleyways. He thought it looked gross and uncomfortable. He had no idea how it _felt._ He had no clue he could feel anything until John.

Sherlock pulled away, "I love you, John."

John smiled like a idiot. Like he was fifteen again.


	3. Chapter 3

As Sherlock set about to try to fall asleep again, he was pretty certain he wasn't going to be able. The kiss flicked though his mind again. Did the brown of the headboard of his bed really match John's eyes? Why hadn't he gotten a case in so long? Why did John feel so wonderful to the touch, like old, loved, leather? No, really, why hadn't Lestrade called him about a case in so long? Did the ceiling look whiter then usual? Had John shuddered more when he pinned him against a wall with his hands or his legs? At least Mycroft should of called with a case by now. What should be the next note in the violin piece he had started composing? What did Sherlock mean to John? How much did John mean to him?

_Yeah, definitely giving up on sleep_, thought Sherlock.

John was upstairs, neckless in his hands, sitting on the edge of the bed. Fuck, Sherlock had tasted good. First person he had kissed that felt... Right. It wasn't just a lustful thing. In fact, it had been anything but that. They were just best friends. Really close. So close, they wanted to touch each other... And maybe a little bit beyond that. Honestly, John had loved it, and if Sherlock wanted to pin him against a wall again tomorrow, he was all for it. He stood up, pulled the box off the shelf. It was time, time to let go. He just wanted to see all that pain go away. He pulled out the beer bottle. It still smelled of a first kiss, even if it was a very drunken one. He held it out over the open window. He caught his breath, forced himself to stop the fearful panting. Sherlock would be his Susan. One kiss, years living with him... Who cared if he was a sociopath? John knew that wasn't really true. He let go of the bottle.

"No," he gasped, as it came in contact with the concrete below and shattered. He turned around, leaning against the wall under the window, breathing so hard and fast it hurt. What the hell had he just done? One moment with Susan... Just gone. But it wasn't, really. He remembered it, and the memory was happier. It felt less heavy, less sad. Before he knew it, the perfume bottle, the journal, the yearbooks, the photo album, the neckless (which he had kissed before letting it fall) were all out his window, sitting on the cold concrete with the cold memories. Everything felt warmer, more real. His whole life. He was free of the sad parts. Well, almost. At the bottom of the box was the note.

_Dear John,_

_I told you it was coming, I tried to tell you, I tried to tell everyone._

_Life doesn't feel right anymore. It's empty, cold, and hard. I was never really one for people, and I don't think the human race is getting any better. If anything, it's worse._

_I still love you. I will always love you. Don't forget that, and don't you dare forget me, but I don't want my death to be the end of you. Please, keep living, John. For both of us. It's too hard for me, but you're strong, your brave, you can take it. I want to know there will be at least one good person on the planet._

_I'm going to meet my mom. I'm sort of excited about that._

_I'll tell her all about you. She'll hear nothing else. Her ears will ring with your name._

_You will be my human angel, and I promise I'll be your guardian one._

_I will find you another person's hand to hold. Someone for you to make better. Someone else who feels alone and needs you to tell them they are important, that they are loved._

_I promise we will both feel less lost._

_Let me go, John,_

_Susan_

He read it one more time. She had found that person, the one she had promised. He hadn't expected it to be someone so young when he was so old, to, let's face it, be a man. Then again, of course it was Sherlock. He was the only person who was even more of a piece of work then she was.

When he had been shot, he thought it was a confirmation Susan's note was a lie.

Maybe it was just the only way he could meet that brilliant, strange, beautiful man.

_Thank you, Susan,_ he thought. And he wadded up the note, and threw it out the window.

Sherlock's mind may have been busy, but it didn't stop him from noticing the crash of glass on rock. He noticed everything, and a unpleasant sound is often the hardest not to hear. He jumped to the window, and looked out. The bottle of perfume was falling from John's window. _Thump, thump, thump, _went the books as they landed on the street below. _Clink, _went the neckless.

Sherlock was confused. What in the world was John doing? He had been all upset by the possibility of them getting lost, being gone from his life forever, and now he was throwing these same beloved possessions out on the street! Sherlock reminded himself John had kept them for sentiment. What had changed?

Sherlock looked away from the window and into the blackness of his dark room.

Oh.

That was obvious.

The kiss, the "I love you"...

Suddenly, Sherlock felt a sense of responsibility. He feared he'd disappoint. He couldn't risk messing up and breaking the already broken man. He cared for that man too much. This was one thing he had to do right...

But it didn't matter. Not really. It wasn't Sherlock's fault John had decided it was time to let go of Susan...

But it was.

John was counting on Sherlock to be something he had never had to be before.

A sweet lover.

Sherlock wasn't sweet.

Sherlock didn't love.

Sherlock was terrified.


	4. Chapter 4

It was four in the morning, and Sherlock had spent a lot of time shooting the wall. Chunks of the wall where the smiley face is had fallen to the floor. It deserved it, really. He had asked it what to do about John, and it had done anything but helped. Instead, it had been the definition of boring. Walls weren't good for talking. Skulls were much better for that, but Ms. Hudson had taken the skull again. Sherlock was trying not to think about it too hard. It wasn't working.

John heard the gun shots, and he was used to falling asleep to the sound of bullets, but he wasn't sure their neighbors were. He threw is blankets at the wall in frustration and Sherlock's lack of respect for other people and his in-ability to sleep. It was like he had just come home from the war again, and he wasn't exactly sure why he couldn't sleep. Maybe he was just paying to much attention to Sherlock abusing the wall.

"SHUT UP!" Screamed Sherlock at the wall, throwing the gun at the wall. More smile crumpled to the floor.

"Sherlock?"

"Hello, John."

"You alright?"

"Fine. Go back to sleep."

"I never went to sleep. Don't think most of the flat did, with you and the wall having a row."

"It had it coming."

"It always has it coming."

"Now you get it."

John had knelt down on the floor next to Sherlock at this point. Sherlock leaned into John's chest, which he was just noticing was bare. He breathed in John, trying not to think about the stupid wall. Damn wall, why did it have to exist?

John put his head on top of Sherlock's and breathed in the smell of his hair. It smelled like medicine.

Sherlock was starting to feel tired. Not really tired like he was going to fall asleep, but more like just tired of the problem the world had thrown at him. He just wanted to be with John as John, not to be compared to Susan. You can't compete with a dead person. He'd been around enough people who had lost someone they had loved to know that. Once someone is dead, they are idolized. Every bad deed seems to just wash away and all that is remembered is the good things.

"Sherlock, can you just try to go to sleep? Just for a hour. One hour of quiet. You need it," John started to get up to leave.

"No," said Sherlock, grabbing John's hand, "I don't want you to go. I want you to stay."

John looked down at Sherlock. Tousled hair, shining, pleading eyes. He looked like a child, "I'm not sleeping on the floor."

"I've tried everything. Please John. Please stay," begged sad, tired, lonely eyes.

"Your room. Come on, get up."

Sherlock's heart skipped at beat, "Really?"

"Come on, Sherlock," said John, grabbing his hand and leading him to his room. It was weird for the both of them. They weren't used to John doing the hand grabbing. For them, that was way weirder then the fact that they were about to share a bed. By a lot.

They laid down and Sherlock immediately curled up into John, holding him crazy close. The warmth of John was intoxicating. It was way better then the cigarettes. And probably the cocaine. Well, maybe.

"Don't go. Whatever you do, don't go," whispered Sherlock across John's chest. He could feel John breathing, feel his heart beating under his fingers. John was beautiful. He smiled. It felt so good not to be alone. He had always told himself alone protected him. He was beginning to doubt that.

He closed his eyes, matched his breathing with John. Wow, just that felt different. John breaths were way slower, more relaxed. He hadn't ever felt that before, breathing slow and steady like that. Concentrating on just one thing was helping, too. Plus, one question felt answered. John was staying, at least for tonight. He wouldn't be alone tonight. He would be safe. Someone had his back. If anyone dared try to kill them now, they'd have one hell of a duo to deal with. With John he could do anything. He was always better with John.

Something impossible happens. Sherlock falls asleep.

John runs his hands though Sherlock's hair. It feels like petting a cat. It's so soft, and the last thing you want to do is stop touching it, but this softness belongs to a animal with claws. It's unpredictable, and could change from the adorable kitten to a viscous killing machine in a matter of seconds, and there's no warning.

Plus the doubt is starting to sink in.

What if Sherlock isn't the one?

What if he is?

Why did he throw the last little bit of Susan he still has left out the window?

Whenever you get rid of something you've had for a long time that has positive emotions attached to it, there's usually a moment where you feel like something's missing. It's like you never clean your room, and then you finally do. Something is just a little off, just a little unsettling. Every pack rat knows the feeling.

Multiply that by twenty five.

Now you're getting it.

John was scared, because that world where everything was black and white and made sense was just gray now. He wasn't straight or gay. He wasn't blue or pink. He was purple. Like Sherlock's scarf.

John looked down a Sherlock. _Look what you've done to me, Sherlock? Don't you see what you've done? Idiot._

John's fingers untangled themselves from Sherlock's hair. He kissed the top of his head. The kiss felt so right. Yeah, he was definitely Sherlock-scarf-purple. Purple just for Sherlock.

The line between best friends and lovers is a fine one, and they'd jumped over the line feet first.


	5. Chapter 5

The two men wake up to a ring of Sherlock's phone. Sherlock is up off of John in a matter of seconds, grabbing the phone and waking up John.

It's Lestrade.

"Hello?"

John shivers. Suddenly the lack of shirt is getting to him. How cold does Sherlock keep his room?

Sherlock turns to John. He looks like a kid on Christmas morning.

"A case?"

"Yes John! Can you believe it? It's Christmas!"

"Well, what are we waiting for? Come on, go shower. I'll make breakfast."

"We don't need breakfast."

Sherlock smiles. He has a crazy, dangerous thought. And he has always loved dangerous.

"We need a shower," says Sherlock, grabbing John's hand and dragging him out of bed and into the bathroom.

"Sherlock..."

"I love you," says Sherlock, and he gently kisses John. John's hands reach under Sherlock's shirt and graze his stomach and chest.

"Can I?"

"Yes. Whatever you want. I'm yours."

John takes off Sherlock's clothes. John runs his fingers over Sherlock's chest, then down Sherlock's ribs.

"You do need breakfast."

"No, I just need you."

"That's what she said."

"I'm not her John. I'm me, Sherlock. Can you see that?"

"Yes, yes, of course I can."

"John, look at me."

John's eyes meet Sherlock's. They're cold and serious. John isn't sure he has bones in his legs anymore, and honestly, he's not even sure this isn't all just a dream. It's still too early in the morning to tell.

"Can you see me?"

"Yes. I know you aren't her, okay? I know."

"Good," says Sherlock, taking off John's clothes. They both know that yes isn't quite true, but they let it go. These things take time. Sherlock turns on the water, steps into the shower and pulls John under the water.

John practically falls into Sherlock, and he steadies himself on Sherlock's chest. John can feel Sherlock's heart racing. He might be good at hiding it, but Sherlock's scared. Of course, the man's probably never had a shower with anybody else before. He's probably never been this close to anyone in his life, and they have been moving awfully fast. He looks up at Sherlock's face. Water had already plastered those curls down, and they form waves over his forehead and curl around his ears in the most adorable way. John smiles.

"You are beautiful."

Sherlock feels reassured, and grabs John's hands, holding him upright, "You alright?"

"Never better," he says with a smile. Sherlock returns it. They stand like that for a minute, until John's eyes wander to the soap. He smiles. Sherlock's not the only one with ideas. He grabs the bottle and squeezes the soap into his hands, then grabs Sherlock's wrist, turns him around, and rubs it into his hair.

"John!" Sherlock tries to turn around, only to get soap on his nose. John finds himself laughing.

Two can play at this game, and Sherlock grabs some of the foamy soap gathered on his head and paints it onto John's nose. John laughs even harder, and they have a soap fight with the suds in Sherlock's hair. It's like a food fight, only much cleaner.

John laughs, and falls backwards, Sherlock catching him before his head can hit the wall.

"One of these days, you're going to hurt yourself falling in the shower."

"Not if you're there to catch me."

Sherlock gives that smile that makes John's heart pound faster.

Sherlock leans farther over John and kisses him, slowly standing him up with their lips locked. Sherlock's holding John so close, he can feel Sherlock's heart beating on his chest, inhumanly fast. John's hands slide up Sherlock's stomach, slick with water and way too much soap. He runs his hands up that tall man's ribs. It feels like running your fingers over a chain-link fence. One hand stays there and one creeps up into that hair. That soft kitty-cat hair John would do anything to touch. His hand follows the curve of one of Sherlock's ribs to his spine, and slowly runs down it with the water, till his hands are cupping that pale arse. Their lips let go as Sherlock gasp.

"John, oh John..." He says, forcing John's hands off of him. His tangles his fingers with John's and kisses him quickly, "I love you."

"I know," says John. _How could I not know when you're hearts been beating like a fucking thunder storm this whole time?_

"You were scared, weren't you?"

Sherlock doesn't respond. Instead, he just lets their breath mingle, ragged and fast, and then Sherlock hugs John, head hung over his shoulder.

"_I love you,_" he whispers quietly, sending shivers down John's spine, as Sherlock's hair and words tickle his shoulder blade. Abruptly, Sherlock lets go.

"Case. Meet me at the bottom of the stairs. Don't want to keep Lestrade waiting," and he's out of the shower in seconds, leaving John alone with the cold water.

"That wasn't a dream, was it?"

The shower curtain doesn't respond.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hi everyone! I just wanted to thank you all for sticking with this so far, and I also wanted to warn you that there is some actual sex in this chapter. Hopefully I do a alright job with it. Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock strode into Scotland Yard followed closely by John.

"Holly Bodimeade, age 18, found mutilated in her bed yesterday. Cut apart, all blood drained, lungs and heart missing. The cuts were surgically precise, looked like a Doctor had done it," says Lestrade, handing Sherlock the photograph.

"Jessie Cave, age 26, body reported hanging from Big Bend at 5:55 this morning. Looked to be skewered by the minute hand, straight though the heart," reported Lestrade, handing another set of photographs to Sherlock.

"And Rose Heiney, age 29, reported missing about a month ago. Various body parts have been found floating down the Thames, and DNA results all match to be hers. Holly's missing organs and Rose's skull were also found on Big Bend, the hour hand."

"Sounds like someone wants attention," mumbled John.

"That's what we thought. We want you to find the killer, Sherlock. Think you can do it?"

Sherlock nods, "Test results, body and found body parts, that includes blood. I'd also like to see Holly's room."

"Alright, let's go."

"We'll follow behind, in the taxi."

"Figured that," and Sherlock turned and left.

* * *

Sherlock had spent the day doing his usual scan of the crime screen and quizzing of relatives. By the end of the day, with no leads, Sherlock was frustrated, and him and John were standing at the edge of the Thames, near where one on Rose's body parts had been found.

"I doesn't make sense, John. Usual a serial killer has some kind of signature, something that makes the killing feel satisfying. Or they slip up, or brag to the police, or..."

John grabbed Sherlock's hand.

"We'll just go home. For now. Just wait for them to make a mistake. You need stuff normal people need, like food and sleep-"

"And love?"

John smiled and squeezed Sherlock's hand, "And love."

Something glitters in the mud by the edge of the river, and for once, Sherlock fails to observe it. He's too busy observing John.

* * *

Sherlock's laying in his robe in the bedroom staring at the ceiling. John will be coming in any second now, and Sherlock has a question he doesn't know how to ask. It's like some animal is stirring inside him, waking from a strange slumber, and it's hungry.

Hungry for sex.

Hungry for love.

Hungry for John.

Sherlock has no idea what to do. How do you ask for sex? Do you ask for sex? Why does he even want sex?

That's what the logical Sherlock thinking. The animal just wants to tackle John into the bed, rip off his clothes, and rut. It sounds rather appealing and easy, but that's not really what Sherlock wants, because he wants to show John he loves him. That thought alone is enough to keep the animal in check.

Sort of.

John walks in, and Sherlock is like a giant starfish, clinging to the bed and claiming it as his rock.

"Sherlock, I'll need space if you want me to sleep with you tonight."

"Just make me move, John."

"Really, are you sure you want to go there?"

"Fuck yeah I do!" Shouted Sherlock, sitting up and swinging his long legs over the side of the bed, "I can't think about anything but you! Everywhere I look in my mind-palace, there you are! You're everywhere, John, and I can't stop thinking about you! My every thought is for you, my every living, breathing moment since we kissed yesterday. Do you have any idea how that feels?"

"Yes, Sherlock, because my every living, breathing moment I spend thinking about you," says John, sitting on the side of the bed and taking one of Sherlock's hands again.

"How do you live like this?"

"How have you not?"

Sherlock is silent and looks down at the floor, "I want you, John," he whispers at the floor.

"Sherlock, look at me," and John is met with those icy blue/gray eyes, the definition of a winter sky, "Sherlock, I'm yours. I have always been yours, since the day we first met," he takes Sherlock's hand and puts it over his heart, "This, Sherlock. This belongs to you. This is for you to have your wicked way with, and Sherlock... Kiss me, and let's see where the night takes us. Just do what _feels _right."

"John..."

"What feels right?"

Sherlock pushes John onto his back, and climbs over him, one hand slipping down John's thigh. John kisses Sherlock, one hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. The kiss is gentle and sweet. Sherlock just wants to love John for all it's worth, and whatever he can give, he will. John's leg between Sherlock's comes into contact with Sherlock's bare crotch underneath the thin robe that covers him, and Sherlock backs away, gasping. Suddenly blood's rushing down and doing things to his cock he didn't even know it could do.

"Oh Joohhhnnnn..."

"What feels right?"

Sherlock's hand works it's way down John's leg and to his robe, untying it and letting it fall as John shimmies it off of his shoulders. His warm, holiday-chocolate eyes glance at Sherlock again.

"What feels right?"

Sherlock lowers John's leg and steadies himself on one hand properly over John, kissing him, aching upwards, using his free hand to take off his own robe. When it's off, he lowers his hips down onto John's, and desperately starts thrusting against him. John moans, and Sherlock enters that tea-warm mouth, desperate for more friction everywhere. John pulls away from the kiss and props himself up on one elbow, other hand on Sherlock's cheek.

"How far do you want to take this?"

"Oh John, as far as we can. I want to fuck you, John, and I want to be fucked by you. I want all of you to be mine, John. Every element of your existence, mine."

"Okay, Sherlock. We're going to need something. I'll be back in a minute, okay?"

Sherlock nods and backs off of John, the loss of contact painful, his cock throbbing as he sat down on the bed, leaning himself on his hands behind him, and breathing hard, trying to calm his racing heart and lungs. His throat hurt from how hard he was breathing, his chest aching from how fast his heart was beating. How was this happening to him, of all people? He was pure, cold, hard logic, and this was anything but that. But to feel like he just had, to feel John, to feel alive...

John's back, with a bottle, holding it like a trophy before Sherlock.

"Do you trust me?" John's up over Sherlock now, and Sherlock can feel John's feet touch his own and John's breath on his face.

"Only you," says Sherlock. John takes the bottle and is squeezing the contents into his hand, rubbing them together.

"No matter what?"

"No matter what," John nods to Sherlock's confirmation, and takes Sherlock's cock in his hands, stroking Sherlock. Sherlock leans back and moans.

"John, John, John, John, oh John, dear John..." He throws himself forward, hugging tightly to John. He doesn't ever want this to stop, but John stops and hands Sherlock the bottle.

"Fuck my arse, Sherlock. Fuck it hard," he says, and Sherlock takes the bottle with trembling fingers, "Just, code your fingers, and fuck me with them, because Sherlock," he's laying next to Sherlock, spreading his legs, and Sherlock's over him again, hanging on every word, "I can't live without you."

Sherlock drizzles some of the lube over his fingers, and slicks them, and finds John's hole with long, cold, wet fingers. Sherlock freezes up, looking at John for some sort of signal that this was okay.

"What feels right?"

"This," says Sherlock, slipping one fingers in, pushing at those spongy, hot walls of John's body.

"Fuck, Sherlock. Don't stop don't stop don't-" a second finger, and it's not words anymore, it's the whimpers and moans of a animal. John wants to say he's okay, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this is Sherlock's first time, and he needs to say he's okay, but he can't. There's no words anymore, there's only Sherlock, and those long pale fingers.

Sherlock can't take it anymore. He's so close, so close to cuming just watching John fuck himself on Sherlock's fingers. He wants more then fingers, though. He wants his cock inside John, now, because he's so hard it _hurts._

"John, can I please?" He asks, meeting the glazed-over eyes of John.

"What... Feels... Oh, just fuck me already!"

John's arse is in the air and both of them have lost all ability to think as Sherlock thrust into John. Once, twice, then again and again and again, John filling the room with the sound of a pet shop as Sherlock grips John's hips so tight he's sure he's going to leave bruises.

"FUCK!" Shouts John, the only word that sounds real to slip out of John's mouth in a long while is followed with cum all over the sheets.

It's also followed by Sherlock's release into John, relief slowly coming to that hot, angry, virgin's cock as John strips that label away from him.

Sherlock collapses on the sheets, damp with lube, sweat, and John's cum, and he takes John's hand and helps him up, wrapping his legs around him and holding him close, as though afraid he's broken the older man. Sherlock breaths in the smell of raw sex that hangs in the air.

He loves it.


	7. Chapter 7

-**Sorry, school has started again, so it may be awhile before this gets updated again. Hopefully you don't get too frustrated with me! Also, tips and suggestions are welcomed.**

It's about five in the morning, and the boys wake up to a knock on the door.

"Shit."

"I'm not getting it."

"Fuck, Sherlock. Neither am I. What kind of client comes at this hour?"

"That's not a client."

They hear a muffled, "Open up!", but even muffled, John knows that voice.

"Shit. Damn it, Sherlock, it's Harry," grumbles John, getting up and picking his robe up off the floor.

"John," says Sherlock, grabbing John's arm, standing up, and bringing John close for the smoothes sleepy kiss possible, "Good luck. I know how difficult a sibling can be. If you need help..."

John gives his new lover a weak smile, "Whatever feels right," and lets go of Sherlock's hand to deal with who knows what.

Well, he knows what when he opens the door. His sister sways a little as she stands in the doorway, threatening to fall over any minute, her short blond hair sticking up in a ton of very strange directions. She's wearing a white fitted tank top and jeans, and high heeled boats that were probably once white but definitely aren't anymore. Her faded blue jacket was hanging on to the lower half of her arms, and she's carrying the evidence in her shaking hand, a silver flask.

"You're drunk, Harry. You can't come in here if you've had anything to drink," says John, snatching the flask.

"John? Please, I just need a room. I can crash on the sofa. Just for tonight," John can smell the alcohol in her words. Sherlock's cigarettes don't even come close to how foul Harry's breath smells.

"What's wrong with your own flat?"

"It's gone. I sort of... Lost it?"

"What?"

"It was just one game of cards, I swear..."

"One game that lost you your flat!"

"So?"

"So you're a-"

"Shut up. It doesn't matter. Just let me have the sofa before I collapse."

"I don't want to see you with a hangover first thing in the morning, and that's Sherlock's sofa. Go upstairs, take my bed."

Harry give John a look. Even in her drunken state, she knows that that's weird, and she will cling to any piece of gossip she gets, especially about her brother.

"Wh-"

"Don't. Upstairs, then out."

"I should of known, just by that way you talk about him in your blog. You're sleeping with him, aren't you? I knew it! Oh my god, you're gay, aren't you? Welcome to the club, brother," Harry grabs for John's hand to shake it, but misses it.

"Go upstairs."

"Are you?"

"Harry..."

"ARE YOU GAY!"

"Shut up, Harry! Ms. Hudson's sleeping!"

"What about you and Sherlock?"

"Harry, leave me alone about Sher-"

Harry sort of stumbles and falls into John. John sighs and helps his sister up the stairs.

"Get to bed yourself, and I want you gone by tomorrow," and John slams the door in Harry's face.

Harry in 221B would have been bad no matter what, but things were changing and emotional right now, and the last thing John needed was this. Harry had lost herself a place to stay again, and he could kick her out in theory, but actually succeeding would cause a lot of problems. And there would probably be a fight with lots of alcohol and blood. Harry would have a broken nose by the end of this one. No, she wouldn't even have a nose. Or teeth. How would Harry look without a face? It'd definitely make it harder for her to drink anything, without a face. That would be great.

John wandered down the stairs and poured the small amount of liquor still in the silver flask down the kitchen sink. It felt good, to watch the poison be chased away by the sweet, pure water and the happy, playful bubbles of soap. John would never understand Harry. Why in the world would someone try to wash away pain and mistakes with something that caused more pain and more mistakes? It didn't make any sense. John turned off the water and turned around right into Sherlock, wrapped in the sheets that still bore signs of their love-making.

"Are you okay?"

Both men knew it was a stupid question. 221B was never a happy place when a sibling was around.


End file.
